In the Chicago underworld, the daughters of the Donovan family had the privilege of choosing an exclusive personal bodyguard when they came of age.

On the day I turned eighteen, from a hundred elite candidates, I chose the cold-eyed, statue-like Julian.

For five years, he was my sharpest blade and my deepest obsession.

The one rule between us: I was forbidden to touch him.

After every mission, those hands—stained with blood for my sake—would meticulously disassemble and clean his weapon three times, as though scrubbing away any trace of my scent.

I had fantasized that one day I would truly possess him, until that fantasy was shattered when I stumbled into his room, drunk.

Beneath his bed, I found a locked compartment. It contained no money or weapons, only a shrine dedicated to a photograph of my adopted sister, Flora—the one who had caused my mother's death—and a phone filled with evidence of his pathological obsession with her.

On the screen, the man who was always so calm and self-possessed in my presence was staring at a silk scarf that belonged to my adopted sister, groaning her name hoarsely, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Flora... I love you..."

Only then did I understand. All his protection was merely a stepping stone to get closer to the woman he truly wished to serve. So, when I took my sister’s place at the altar, it was jarring to see Julian—a man who’d always begrudged me so much as a glance—standing in the shadows, his eyes rimmed in red.

————————

————————

1

"Fine. I'll marry that madman from the Accardi family in Flora's place."

For the first time in years, my stoic father, Don Declan Donovan, nearly flipped the table.

He shot to his feet, a flash of manic joy on his face. "Anya, you've finally seen sense! The Accardis are pressing the issue; the wedding has to be next week. What kind of dress do you want? I'll have it all arranged immediately—"

"Don't bother. I only have two conditions. Meet them, and I'll marry him."

The joy on his face vanished in an instant. He sat back down, his eyes turning wary. "What do you want? If you're thinking of harming Flora—your sister—you'd better drop that thought. Now. Don't test me."

"My real sister is long dead. Have you forgotten?" I offered him a smile that held no warmth. "You were the one who ordered her coffin to be moved."

Flora Russo was the daughter of my father's late, loyal Made Man.

She was only a year younger than me. Eight years ago, after her parents died, my father, obsessed with his code of loyalty, brought their orphaned daughter home and adopted her.

The first day she set foot in our home, my mother fell down the stairs. That day, both she and my unborn sister died.

Less than a week after my mother's death, Flora begged my father to remove my mother's memorial plaque and replace it with her own mother's. My mother wasn't even allowed to rest in peace.

My father's face darkened.

He snatched the heavy crystal ashtray from the table, raising it as if to throw it at me before checking himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, his voice turning sharp. "Name your conditions."

"First, I want Flora's mother's memorial plaque removed from the family chapel. She will never be laid to rest next to my mother. Second, transfer Julian to Flora's side. I don't want him anymore."

"No."

I stared straight at him, refusing to back down. "I want to see the plaque removed with my own eyes before the wedding. Otherwise, you can wait for the Accardis to come for Flora themselves."

The crystal ashtray shattered at my feet. My father roared in a hoarse, broken voice, "Fine."

It was three in the morning by the time I emerged from my father's study. Not wanting to return to my room, I wandered into the family's private lounge and drank myself into a stupor. As the alcohol finally hit, my thoughts drifted to Julian.

The day he arrived for the selection was the anniversary of my mother's death. Flora had said it was bad luck and thrown all the portraits I had painted of my mother into the fireplace. There were so many servants in that mansion, yet not a single one dared to help me.

Only Julian rolled up his sleeves and reached into the flames, pulling the paintings out one by one.

In that moment, my heart skipped a beat. But it wasn't until yesterday that I learned it had all been an act. He didn't rush into the fire because he pitied me.

No, he did it to get Flora's attention.

The day before had been Flora's birthday. My father insisted on throwing a grand celebration for her, so he ordered me not to attend. He was afraid my presence would ruin her mood.

Julian had also requested the day off, saying he had something important to handle.

That night, just like now, I was in the lounge, drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Stumbling back through the mansion, drunk, I accidentally walked into Julian's room. Under his bed, I found that locked compartment.

Inside, besides the shrine to Flora, there was a phone.

On the phone, the man who was always so composed and self-possessed in my presence was gasping over a mere photograph. At the peak of his climax, I heard him groan, "Flora...I love you...I love you so, so much..."

The phone also held his text messages with a confidant.

"Mr. Stavros, how long do you plan on keeping up this bodyguard charade? Your parents have urged you to come home and inherit the family business countless times. If you keep dragging this out, your father is really going to lose it."

"Besides, you're the heir to the Chicago Greek mob; women throw themselves at you. What kind of woman can't you have? Why are you so fixated on the adopted daughter of a mafia family?"

"You even used a fake name to become her sister's bodyguard, just to get closer. What are you even after?"

Julian took off his non-prescription glasses, his eyes filled with a strange, tender lust. "I can't help it. Flora is so fragile. I don't want to frighten her."

"And what about Anya Donovan? Mr. Stavros, do you feel anything for her at all?"

Julian frowned, a flash of disgust on his face. "Yes. She makes me sick."

After reading the messages, I collapsed onto the bathroom floor, clutching my stomach. I dry-heaved until the world spun. A physical ache bloomed in my chest, as if my heart was tearing itself apart. I forced myself to my feet and opened the eighth bottle of the night.

A sudden footstep startled me from my thoughts.

I turned my head and saw Julian standing there. He was dressed in a crisp black suit. There wasn't a single wrinkle on him, even the top button of his white shirt was neatly fastened.

"Miss, it's time to go back to your room."

I stood up drunkenly, swaying on my feet. Sure enough, I missed a step and fell straight toward his arms. Julian immediately stepped back, his expression tight. He recoiled as if I were poison.

"Ouch..." I landed hard on the floor, scraping my knees.

He was unmoved by my pain. He helped me up with his pristine white silk gloves, then unceremoniously dumped me on the sofa and hurried toward the bathroom.

I knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to wash his hands again.

In the five years he had followed me, he had used enough antiseptic soap to fill a room. He touched my hand? Wash his hands. He entered my room? Wash his hands.

It was worse when he serviced me in bed with those gloved hands, because he would practically flee afterward to scrub his skin raw.

If I hadn't seen him getting off to Flora's photo, I might have actually believed he was a pathological germaphobe.

A bitter smile twisted my lips, the small movement sending a fresh spike of pain through my scraped knees.

…

Half an hour later, Julian finally emerged from the bathroom. His gloves were gone, and the strong scent of antiseptic soap wafted from his hands.

If I hadn't discovered the truth, I would have thrown a fit right now out of sheer spite. I would have clung to him, demanding he carry me, rubbing my scent all over him.

Now, when I noticed the wariness in Julian's eyes, I just wiped my face and turned away calmly. "Let's go."

Julian was clearly taken aback.

The ride back to the estate was silent. He was busy texting someone, while I scrolled through the wedding dress photos my father had sent me.

Just then, he suddenly said, "Stop the car."

I turned my head in confusion. He smoothly tucked his phone away and said curtly, "There's an emergency. I need to go to the South Side. Miss, you can walk back from here."

It was pouring rain in Chicago, around four or five in the morning. The desolate industrial road was empty. I opened my mouth to refuse, but Julian had already opened the car door and pushed me out.

The alcohol hit my nerves like a train at that moment. Unsteady on my feet, I slipped and plunged into the muddy water like a drowned rat.

"Julian!" I screamed in fury. But he didn't even spare me a glance. Instead, he simply ordered the driver to go.

And so, the car sped off into the storm, splashing a fresh wave of dirty water all over me. I was left alone in the downpour, utterly abandoned. There were no cars to call, as none would pass through here in this weather. I ended up walking three miles in the rain to get home.

…

When I finally reached the estate, the lights were still on. Flora was lounging comfortably on the sofa in her lavish, custom-made pajamas, a new cashmere shawl draped over her.

It was a shawl from the most famous tailor on the South Side, a man so exclusive he never delivered—pickup only.

Julian stood beside her, every glance he cast her way burning with restrained emotion.

"Anya, you're back!" Flora put down her wine glass and looped her arm through mine with practiced warmth. "Julian just picked up my shawl for me. Come see, isn't it beautiful?"

"Don't touch me." I pulled my arm back, stepping away in disgust.

She blinked, startled by my vehemence. Her eyes immediately reddened as she looked helplessly at Julian. "Julian... did I do something wrong?"

A flicker of heartache crossed Julian's gaze, which was then replaced by barely disguised loathing as he looked at me. Flora looked pleased, her own expression turning coy as she glanced at him. "Julian, I'm a little cold. Can you carry me to my room?"

The moment she made that request, I saw his Adam's apple bob twice. Sure enough, his eyes behind the non-prescription glasses darkened.

He swept her into his arms and carried her upstairs in a few quick strides, even remembering to turn off the living room lights as he went. I stood there, dripping, swallowed by the darkness.

…

A long time later, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. I drifted back to my room, a ghost in my own home.